Almost Fiction
by monavi
Summary: What astounding things comprised one human being, the human being he could spend the rest of his life with. Post-Blue Sky.


_i._

As remarkable as seemingly unremarkable things could be, he still marveled at her state of peace; the soft, rhythmic breath that spilled from her lips and brushed his collarbone, her calloused palms draped over his waist, eyelashes that fluttered in the midst of dreaming.

She used to have nightmares. He recalled all too well the nights when she would jerk awake, coated in sweat, hands gripping the bedsheets as tightly as she would the handle of a portal gun. Other times they would be the quiet terrors, the soft whines escaping from her throat and her limbs twitching with anxiety, and those would be the nights that he could not wake her. Those were the powerless nights, the fears that had him in a chokehold as he sat vigil by her side and stroked her hair and just _talked_ , talked as much as he could, coaxing her out of her frightening visions.

He'd have them, too.

The echo of Her toneless voice would chase him down a lightless corridor and he would run, run for his life until he was no longer moving, just flailing about in an attempt to gain momentum, and the darkness would slowly tear him apart, piece by piece, until his mind forced him into the waking world and he would emerge breathless, on the verge of apologetic hysteria, _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry -_

Sometimes they would simply hold each other and wait for the fear to go away.

Nowadays, the nightmares barely came at all.

Perhaps it was her quiet strength, his neurotic protectiveness - they were a good team in that sense. She looked after him, kept him out of trouble, and in return, he listened. Absorbed every word she composed, responded diligently in their conversations, filled the space in midnight silences. She taught him, and he adored her, and he knew that she loved him too. She was not a woman of many words, but he had improved at reading her actions and expressions, and knew that her brand of love was not lengthy proclamations and clumsy presentations of various indigenous plant species - as his had been.

He had not just fallen in love with her, he had _met_ her, for what felt like the first time. Met the firm impact of her words, the sharp contours of her cheekbones, the subtle curve of her hips and the sound of her voice. What astounding things comprised one human being, the human being he could spend the rest of his life with. The light of his existence.

It was funny, really, because if someone had told him several years ago where he would be at this point in time, he would have laughed and called their bluff. Everything was so outrageously _absurd_ , almost straight out of a work of fiction, right down to their very first encounter at that accursed Place. He had greeted her with a frantic cheeriness. She had jumped by way of communication. Almost laughable, that.

He had known her as a statuesque force of nature, a hurricane with a face carved in marble, teeth gritted and lips pressed together in utter determination. Not once had her body fallen limp; not once had she succumbed to the overwhelming weight of fatigue or hopelessness. She was a storm, a shameless display of stubbornness that drove the Voice above to constant irritation - it was what he had first admired in her. Raising hell after she had been through it herself. He could relate.

So it still struck him as extraordinary to miss the clench of her jaw, the tightening of hundreds of muscles all at once. She slept quietly, legs entangled with his, pressed gently against his chest. The lips he remembered as incessantly pursed were now loose and curved, teasing his gaze upwards at the hint of an unconscious smile. For once, she was content, and it gave him such relief that he couldn't help but smile back.

* * *

 _ii._

There were sudden instances - the light as it fell across her shoulders and caught in her brunette locks, or the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled - during which it just hit him like a _sledgehammer_ , how utterly fortunate he was to have her.

And heaven only knew how often it occurred to him that if not for her mercy, he could very well be trapped in that Place, tortured at Her whim for the rest of his life. He wished he could express to her the exact measure of his gratitude, which would no doubt take millenia to put into words, and another few decades for her to decipher. And even worse than that was the ache residing stubbornly in his chest, ignited any time their eyes met, because his love for her stretched beyond the constellations at the edge of the ever-expanding universe and there was no way he could say so without sounding poetically ridiculous.

He settled for kisses on the cheek and wide grins, which, he supposed, could also speak volumes.

* * *

 _iii._

They taught each other how to dance.

Lazy evenings spent waltzing slowly to the radio's vintage ballad station were his favorite evenings; they took turns leading, and her blush would gradually fade in the candlelight. Sometimes she rested her head against his chest, a small feat for her but a triumph of great prominence for him; he who considered it an honorable show of trust and held her close as they swayed back and forth.

It was one of the rare times in his life where he _didn't_ feel the need to fill the space with thousands of words, when the quiet was not frightening but in fact comforting, and he was content to listen to the radio's crackling and her slippered feet as they skimmed lightly above the floorboards.

At the end of their dance, she would kiss him, and more than once he had wrapped his arms around her waist to lift her up to his level. She would situate herself, trapping his waist between her legs, and lean into the slope of his neck. She was surprisingly light, more featherweight than anything, despite the muscle defined in her arms and calves and abdomen.

Eventually he would have to sit, staggering against the edge of the couch and landing them awkwardly in a heap of pillows. Still as a statue, she would not move, happy to remain where she was until he shifted positions - but he did not. Occasionally they would fall asleep like that, and he would wake up with an ache in his neck and legs that hurt something _awful_ but was worth it, so worth it.

She was not a touchy-feely person by nature, but their affections could so easily be driven by reassurance, the knowledge that the other was there, physically _there_ , that it was too easy to drift back towards intimacy.

Of course, he didn't mind.

* * *

 _iv._

When they spoke of the nightmares, her memory was fleeting, uncertain, lacking clarity for the images she dreaded.

He had hardly retained his pristine memory from his days as a core, but the patterns of his dreams were so consistent that they had forever ingrained themselves in his mind.

They both knew, however, knew through some unusual instinct of the heart and soul when the other had suffered during the night, and those were the mornings of hot tea and fresh baked bread, nearly drowning in the early light of day.

* * *

 _v._

She was an early riser, and so by the time he yawned and rubbed his eyes at the herald of morning, she would be gone, leaving nothing but a rumpled comforter and the vague scent of cinnamon.

On very rare occasions, however, she would sleep in. He would wake, delighted, to see her eyelashes drooping lazily and casting tiny shadows over her cheek, and burrow into the crook of her shoulder. At which point she would be wide awake and briefly argue with him over whether or not to stay in bed. The winner varied from day to day.

One particularly stormy morning, as lightning flashed and thunder split the sky overhead, they dozed under the covers and exchanged intermittent murmurs with the pretense of peace. Eaden was quiet, their house stood strong against the barrage of rain, and for a few brief hours they were alone in their own small haven.

It was amazing how a life that had once seemed a little _too_ real was now overwhelmingly so, just too good to be true, and it would have scared him to death if not for the feverish reality of her touch. Any time her fingers interlocked with his, he could force his fears back into the corner of irrationality from whence they came and focus on her natural warmth.

Yet another reason he had to be so grateful for her; the list was long and ever-growing.

If his love for her existed beyond the edge of the universe, he decided, he was content to leave its full extent unexplored. This place was his home; _she_ was his home, and a life with her and the simplest of pleasures was more than he could have asked for.

* * *

 _Hey, you, with the pretty face!_  
 _Welcome to the human race._


End file.
